


He Has No Idea

by amoama



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoama/pseuds/amoama
Summary: Office sex. Malcolm has no idea how this happened.





	

Malcolm has no idea how it happened. Jesus fuck, he has no idea how. Her craziness must be catching. He was shouting, he remembers that, he was closer than he usually gets, more wound up. He is losing it. He used to be able to unleash cannonballs of verbal hellfire on targeted fuck ups with pinpoint precision. Now he’s so mired in shit, so deep in the steaming cesspit of politically unsavvy retards blowing smoke up their own arses that his skin itches at all times and his brain is screaming at him to get the fuck out of the constant fire-fart trajectories, that he can barely breathe. Let alone think, quietly, about strategy for five seconds straight. There is no targeting, no precision, just unleash, unleash, unleash. 

 

Except every once in a blue moon, in the middle of riotous, disastrous, malfunctioning on a species level, Nicola fucking fucking Murray of the brain-addled department of nuclear catastrophe will look him in the eye, full of chagrin, and the world will 

 

pause. 

 

Just one seconds-worth of beautiful suspension, like they are watching together as the shit blows in slow-motion towards them from the fan, and they have one moment of matrix-time to duck backwards. 

 

But Nicola already knows that she’s not as bendy as Keanu fucking Reeves so she’s going to land on her arse with her fanny on display and she can’t believe it but she’s going to do it anyway because she’d prefer that to shit on her face. In those moments, she always looks at him fully aware that he is going to roll sideways out of shot and leave her cunt-up to the press and the party because that’s what he does. 

 

She’s like everyone else, she hates him and she needs him. She’s a giant explosion of incompetence that he wishes he didn’t have to deal with but she also makes the screaming stop every now and then and at some point that became a sacred fucking skill. 

 

He started coming over to shout at her just to get another look like that. Like a fucking ex-banker heroin addict who likes the first day of rehab better than the shooting up but has to keep shooting just to get another shot at the first day where your parents cry as they drop you off and the nurses are all tough-love matrons (like the ones that spanked you at school) and the other inmates give you the judgement eyes and everything hurts but you get wrapped up and looked after and no one expects you to do anything but howl. 

 

He has been howling at Nicola. She’d come to Number 10 this time, expressly for the privilege of a world-class Malcolm Tucker decimation experience. He had been leaning in, he had been full of splenetic vitriol over... something, immigration stats? Fuck knows what now. Subsequent events have erased whatever it was right out of his mind. His brain has cracked and is leaking out potentially vital information onto the antique just-for-show-don’t-you-dare-get-comfortable-here sofa where he is now lying fucking disheveled-looking underneath the equally debased Secretary of State for Social Affairs and Citizenship, who for christ’s babies’ sake, appears to be sleeping through this crisis. 

 

He really has no idea how this happened but regretfully feels that he should attempt to piece it together so that he can decide how to spin it before Nicola decides to wake up and start ruining his year some more. 

 

He was leaning in. To communicate his ire more viciously. He was imagining a button which connected to a mine shaft which would swallow Nicola and her whole fucking department entirely for all eternity. He was yelling fine obscenity after fine obscenity and she was looking rather tired and certainly radically unaffected, or at least, she was looking deaf. He couldn’t get through, he remembers that vividly, she wasn’t listening, or hearing, or parsing, or fucking, translating into fucking Nicolese or klingon for the politically impaired or whatever the fuck language her head speaks in. 

 

He wasn’t reaching her and then, all of a sudden, he was reaching for her. 

 

It’s possible he was shaking her and she was looking at him, shocked, and her eyes were questioning him and kicking into gear from whatever stupor she’d just been in and he didn’t fucking want to see the look, the look he was addicted to, and hated, and wanted to never see so that he didn’t have to notice the pile of shit he was standing in reacting, and sinking and reacting and sinking. 

 

So he kissed her; to stop her looking and thinking, even though that was what he had been aiming for. It was a lost cause to get Nicola to engage her brain when he wanted her to, she got flustered and nonsensical if he gave the slightest hint that something was important. He wanted her to be completely without any thoughts behind dead, dead, eyes. 

 

He kissed her and lent his body towards hers and swallowed down her outcry because he could feel her hands closing over his hips and pulling them to her. He briefly remembered about how much he didn’t want to get ousted for sexual harassment and pulled back to ask her, “Do you mind?” 

 

“Do I, what?” She was doing the fucking flustered annoying thing where he could hear her jittery way of thinking which was mostly pirouetting ballerinas travelling in figures of eight round a tiny electric circuit getting electrocuted on every turn. He wished she wouldn’t try to think. 

 

“Do I mind if you kiss me?” She clarified hazily. 

 

“Yes,” he let his voice growl a little, felt her hips respond, which was unhelpful. 

 

He can’t believe he’s doing this but he’s done worse in his time and it’s better than whatever they’d been doing before which is what they always do, and is boring and ineffective and gets them nowhere but into the next fucking public crisis. At least this is a private crisis. A scandal, sure, but not one that’s going anywhere beyond this room and not one that will ever be likely to be repeated. Besides he’s fucking exhausted. She is fucking exhausted. He wants to do something nice for once, something that isn’t tearing his own hair out. His body just wants this and he doesn’t feel like intervening with what is clearly a full physical and psychological break that he is experiencing here. He is riding a wave, a u-turn of personal preference and policy. He wants to do himself a favour and go the fuck with it. He moves himself a little against her, gives her his best “I’ve not got all day, are you interested right the fuck now” face. It involves lifting an eyebrow and pursing his lips slightly. He’s waiting.

 

She shrugs and tries to brush her hair off her face a little in an oddly womanly gesture that violently irritates him. Everything about her irritates him. His cock is fucking infuriated right now. 

 

“Do you fucking mind if I fucking kiss you?” He repeats, and he fucking hates repeating himself. But he feels like he’s done that thing where he jumped from the airplane for the skydive and the free falling feels fucking suicidally brilliant. “Do you object to me sticking my fucking tongue down your fucking throat so we don’t have to fucking shout at each other for at least the next ten minutes?” 

 

She gives him the look, perturbed and vexed that this is the situation they’ve found themselves in. He winces away from it, because he doesn’t need any of her fucking clairvoyance getting in the way of his irrational dick. 

 

“I don’t, mind I mean, I mean, it’s, I think, something, that I, perhaps want, just now, I mean,” she manages, and he kisses her, fuck all that bullshit. It’s some kind of consent, he thinks, spinnable, he thinks, horrendously, he knows he’s horrendous, he’s the devil after all. Kissing her is good, she feels good, she feels great, like an actual human body that responds, finally, to communication. He feels like they could actually get through to each other this way. 

 

He pulls back once more, at great personal sacrifice.

 

“That’s a yes?”

 

“Fuck, Malcolm, stop asking me to think about it. Get the fuck on with it. Yes.” 

 

He’s in so much fucking trouble because he fucking loves it when she gets like this. He’s hard and he wants it to be dirty as fuck. He doesn’t want to get naked and caress her tender tits, he doesn’t want to see the fucking stretch marks from the four fucking kids sent from God to make his life fucking humourous to the wanking deity. He just wants to take her, he wants to pull down her granny fucking panties and spread her legs and bunch her skirt up to her waist and take her. 

 

He shoves his hand up her skirt as a precursor of his intentions. He wrestles the pencil skirt of indifferent origin up her legs, and manfully negotiates that added obstacle of her M&S figure-shaping tights, which try to pin his hand to her crotch once he gets in under them. His fingers fumble on until they reach the hot, wet centre of her and he holds her there for a moment, letting it feel real, making sure she’s still with him, not wandering off to the Nicolaland adjacent to Neverland for flighty female politicians, headmistresses and other wannabe spinsters. 

“Keep going,” she grits out, ordering him on, and his fingers slide inside her like they actually find it acceptable to follow her instructions. Her body shakes around him and he wants to talk, he wants to tell her how great she feels and what he wants to fucking do to her right now but he holds it in. For a start it might encourage her to talk back and her mouth is a fucking liability. He kisses her again, just to be connected, and involves his other hand in the battle to rid her of her fucking tights because, yes you fucks, he’s a multitasker. His wrist is aching, trapped against her and he needs more access. He wants to fuck her. He wants her to want him to give it to her, to slide all the way in and purloin all of her rationality for the rest of time. He wants her to give him the look, that look, that startling, world-condensing, flicker of human intelligence that has become so fucking rare around here. He wants that while he’s inside her. 

 

He finally gets her tights rolled down past her cunt but the instant he does she bats his hand away and says, “Condom, in my purse,” in that flustered, barely functioning way that she usually reserves for questions in the House or public policy launches. 

 

“You have condoms in your purse? Who the fuck are you shagging that you need fucking condoms in your fucking purse?” He shouldn’t be surprised but he is. 

“I’m not, you infantile man, I have one, you know, for emergencies. It’s in the first aid kit.” 

 

“It’s what?” He can’t fucking believe this, “You’re what, going to administer emergency sex on Oli the moment he burns his fingers on the coffee pot?” 

 

“No, Malcolm, just for goodness sake get the fucking condom on your fucking dick before I come back to my senses and work out what it is you’re trying to achieve here. Are their fucking cameras round here? Is this some kind of ploy to get me sacked from doSAC?” 

 

She’s removing her tights and her knickers as she speaks so he’s not too worried she is even aware of what she’s saying. He finds the first aid kit in her bag and spills all the contents into the bag to find the condom. He is a travesty of need and his head keeps screaming at him in violent red font, NICOLA MURRAY, NICOLA FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING MURRAY. But all that’s really communicating to him is the fucking and he finally slides the condom over his dick. 

 

She’s up all over him a second later, perching herself on his desk and pulling him against her, chanting, “Ready, yes, I’m ready, come on Malcolm, get a grip and let’s do this.” It sounds so similar to when she’s actively trying to provoke his ire that’s fucked for every future argument they ever have. All for this, for this one moment of bodily weakness. 

 

He positions them and slides the fuck home. It feels fucking good and they share one moment of surprise at how horrifyingly superb it feels to be joined together like this. 

 

“Christ, Nicola,” he says, finally, deliberately, breaking the spell, “your fanny get this fucking wet every time we fight?” God he hopes so. This is taking their working relationship to stratospheric levels of dysfunction but he can’t care as he starts to move inside her. She starts making hideous sex noises and he fucking knew she’d be as loud but it fucking sounds superb. God he wants to gag her, he thinks, maybe, she’d let him, but she’d sure as shit insist on silencing him in return. She hates the game and she’s terrible at it and somewhere deep inside him he respects her for it and that makes him think he’d probably let her gag him in return one day, just for the pleasure of giving into her, once. Like now, in his office, tawdry and seedy and so prosaic, barely a scandal in political terms. Although of course, she would have more to lose than him. 

 

Still, she wants it and he’s giving it to her and he puts one hand over her mouth and the other back on her clit and lets her cling to him to hold him in place as she wants him. He looks her in the eye and enjoys the deep determination that has settled there, she is focused on nothing but him and what they’re doing. He can see the effort she’s making to keep up their tempo, the rhythm they’ve hit that feels wretchedly fucking good, and the intensity with which she’s chasing down her pleasure, she’s seizing around him, pulsing pressure around his dick, catching at his every thrust. 

 

She pulls his hand off her mouth, gasping out at him, “Quiet, Malcolm, for fuck’s sake, quietly.” 

 

He doesn’t know what she’s really referring to, is he slamming the desk to hard or something? And then he notices the way he’s grunting each time he pushes into her and tries to stop but doesn’t seem to be able to. He can’t stop at all, his balls are so tight and his entire body is wired to blow. 

 

“Nevermind, fucking, nevermind,” Nicola swears and pulls him in to kiss him and it works a little to quiet him but also backfires massively because he comes right then, inside her, and twists his fingers on her clit so she comes too and she fucking yells out her pleasure like they’re alone on an island in the pacific, not in Number 10 Downing Street next door to the PM. 

 

Fuck, Malcolm hopes the PM isn’t in. Not that it matters, he’ll just say he hired an escort for a dinner or something, it’s fucking pedestrian compared to what the PM’s done in the past anyway. He just, fuck, he wants to be on a Pacific island. That would be bloody great. Peace on earth, good will towards animals and fish and Nicola fucking Murray and no other person because no one else will exist on his island and Nicola will probably only exist in short bursts for fighting or sex or occasional comic relief as he needs it. His brain is super fucking offline and he can feel her shuddering against him, little shockey vibrations of her cunt around his cock that clam up his throat and make his fingers shake a little against her skin. 

 

He kisses her as he pulls out and she pushes her skirt down instantly, eyes watching the door despite their hands still all over each other. He backs away a little to do up his trousers and she gives him a confused look before collapsing onto his sofa. She closes her eyes and puts her arm over her face. 

 

He puts himself back in order and sits himself down beside her, he is feeling as uncertain as Nicola just looked and his body seems to think staying near her will help. He looks at his hands, his crotch, touches his lips a little. All parts of him that just acted contrary to all his expectations. The room smells of her. She is lying legs akimbo. A disheveled, defiant picture. He’s fucked. Truly. Because he can already sense how much more he wants from her. His mind is already skipping out ahead of itself, making plans for seeing her, how he will take her, how they’re going to get away with it. He curses, then, as he realises, there’s no planning for Nicola Murray, she’s every natural weather disaster rolled into one. He lies down beside her, sleepy. He can’t deal with this right now. He doesn’t have a fucking clue how she’ll destroy his plans this time, he just knows she will, and worse, he wants her to.


End file.
